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Getting Past What Holds You Back with Baby Boomer Weight Loss Expert Scott 'Q' Marcus

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Seeking Joy in Difficult Times

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Twenty-twenty was supposed to be “our” year.

My wife is crossing into a significant new decade age-wise (aren’t they all?). I was supposed to “retire” – in whatever definition that was. This month commemorates our twentieth anniversary; we were planning a recommitment shindig and a nice long tropical vacation. Buzzing with anticipation for all that would come this year; that was us last December.

Said John Lennon, “Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.”

The year literally began with a bad case of the flu on January 1. That should have been an omen. On the same day, our eldest cat’s health began a steep too-rapid decline, leading to what would be his passing a few months hence. Want more? We unearthed extremely distressing news about a family member; the kind of tabloid information you’d hear on one of those daytime TV dysfunction fests. Less important, but still adding to the pressure, our washing literally burned up and our sink’s faucet could have been replaced with a fountain. I’m sure you’ve got stories too.

We tried focusing on the positive. Knowing Tiger’s passing was imminent, we promised that after it happened, we’d grieve, lick our wounds for a short while, and then get away for a few days just the two of us; something we haven’t been able to do in too long. Afterward, we’d put together plans for our “Celebrate 2020” vacation. Panama Canal cruise? Trip to Europe? Two weeks in Hawaii? The choices were endless – and invigorating.

Yeah, not so much.

I am so disappointed about how this year has evolved.

I know. It’s not just me; it’s you too. It’s the elderly couple across the street self-isolating. It’s the maid at the Best Western who was let go due to a lack of guests. Grocery clerks insufficiently protected by panels of acrylic are feeling it. Health care providers are suffering PTSD. Mom and pop restauranteurs feel immeasurable guilt about laying off employees; simply hoping to survive. Teachers want to return to classrooms, but not at the risk of dying. Spiritual communities and self-help groups are shuttered.

It’s a cluster.

EVERYONE is disappointed; it’s the global zeitgeist.

[Read more…]

One of These Days, When This All Passes…

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One of these days, morning will dawn on a world where this will have all passed.

One of these days, we will return to lives, no longer sheltering-in-place nor wearing protective gear and masks to leave our houses. One of these days we will again put on make-up, style our hair, dress up, and go out for a night at the theater, soaking in all the glorious laughter and chatter of being in a room full of people, no longer fearful of what might be transmitted. One day again, we will celebrate a special occasion at an upscale restaurant, surrounded a bit too closely by other diners – but we won’t mind. One of these days we will host dinner parties and wrap our arms around and hold tight each and every person who enters our house.

One of these days, we will look back with a mixture of sorrow and relief and anger and fear at this entire horrific, upending, devastating period.

Alas, that day is not yet.

It won’t be as far from now as we fear, nor will it be as soon as we would prefer.

But it is coming; as surely as the sun will rise and the winds will blow and the stars will shine; it is approaching. Paraphrasing T.S. Elliot, that instant will land not with a bang, but with a whimper; subtlety, slowly, surreptitiously making known its presence. In the same manner one cannot actually watch a flower open but can recognize its beauty when it blooms, that time is blossoming even now.

And when it does, what will you do to commemorate its arrival?

I will re-experience joy in the small things. No more will I socially distance myself nor self-isolate, instead smiling broadly when someone — anyone — passes me on the sidewalk. No longer having to swab everything with sani-wipes, I will plop down my butt on any park bench I damn well want or hang from its jungle gym, free of trepidation of what I might catch. I will relish the background noise and chatter of a crowded mall. I’ll stand nearer than six feet when in line at the grocery store and won’t be afraid to handle cash when I pay. [Read more…]

The Ceremony

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wedding-invitation

From its dawn through the mid-twentieth century, 90 percent of all gloves sold in the United States were manufactured in Gloversville, New York; making it one of the most appropriately named cities on the continent.

Originally known as “Stump City” because of all the trees that had been cut down it was incorporated in 1890. Having spent three weeks there, I can tell you firsthand that the sidewalks have probably not been repaired since that date. In many places, taking a walk was akin to scaling miniature cement mountains, circumventing canyons, crevices, and summits that substituted for a walkway.

Yet, it surpassed Augusta, Maine’s sidewalks, which were non-existent.

Trying to navigate the roadway to the shopping center, a distance of about one half mile, was analogous to open field running in a war zone. One scouts oncoming traffic waiting for a break, upon a clear patch, dash hurriedly down the road to the next safe haven, pause again for traffic, and repeat the process. (If more communities had decent sidewalks, it sure would help solve our obesity problem. However, that’s another topic.)

In the previous 94 days, I traveled 18,594.6 miles (give or take), from Anchorage to Augusta, Rutland to Redding.

While on the road, I visited a 20-foot tall chocolate fountain in Alaska. I resisted the urge to climb in, but succumbed to sampling real honest-to-goodness Vermont-made maple syrup while in Burlington. If you have not this pleasure, imagine the taste of a warm sunrise lightly brushed with natural honey gliding over your tongue, evaporating into airy nothingness.

Although mostly work-related, my journeys were book-ended by highly personal, deeply emotional events.

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Working Hard at Relaxing

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I’m not dead.

At least when I wrote that; I wasn’t. Being the intelligent reader of this column, you put two and two together and surmised that in a flash. Hopefully, as you read this, I am still in the not-dead state of being — and shall remain so for decades yet to come.

Having proven therefore that I understand very little about what it’s like to die, you will cut me slack about not really knowing — but safely assuming — that no one’s last words were ever, “I wish I would have spent more time working and less time enjoying life.”

We would agree, wouldn’t we?

So, then what’s the deal with non-stop, dawn-to-dusk, 24/7, busy-making? We don’t ever just “chill.” Well, at least I don’t; maybe you do, but I’ll bet dollars to donuts that you’re in the same place. There’s so much to get done with so few hours to do it.

Forty-hour workweek; what’s that?

Wake up. Shower. Shave. Throw some frozen waffles down your gullet while checking the mail and packing lunches. Get the kids to school, pick them up, and beat feet to soccer practice and gymnastics. Straightaway back, homework, meals, brush teeth, and off to bed. To accomplish everything requires groundwork: grocery and clothes shopping, housecleaning, home maintenance, and car servicing. These necessitate steady income — and, oh yes — have you heard the news about the economy? You better not slack off at work or they’ll swap you out quicker than a DVD rental on a Saturday night. So, off to the salt mines, bringing our assignments home so we can get them on our kitchen tables in the morning and the bed stands at night. We’re work harder while having the privilege of paying more for everything. Come end of day, it’s drop like a lead brick off a six-foot wall.

It’s no wonder we don’t have time for “a life.” Or do we?

My sister phones, “What are you up to?” She asks.

I reply, “I’m working hard at relaxing.”

Stop the clock. Re-read that response please: “I’m working hard at relaxing.” Huh? That statement makes as much sense as “same difference,” or “kosher ham;” but I swear it was my reply and I’m betting you relate. Our lives are so cluttered, that if tasks were boxes, we’d be featured on the TV series “Hoarders.” No longer are we human beings, we have become “human doings.”

[Read more…]

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Scott "Q" Marcus
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